#he's just like cinder for real

[strqyr]

yeah mercury keeps telling emerald that cinder doesn't care about her but what about this emphasis on how she doesn't care about either of them:

"cinder doesn't care about you! she doesn't care about either of us!"

what's up with that. did he think at some point that cinder might have cared, and then something happened to make him think otherwise and now he's putting up walls to avoid getting hurt?

it's not like he was trying to distance himself away from cinder; if anything, he goes to stand by cinder's side only to get shoved aside by emerald.

but then raven refers to them as the two children who cinder had tricked into following her, and salem reveals that cinder is alive but must toil in isolation to redeem herself before returning.

did mercury expect cinder to return to them no matter what, screw toiling in isolation? but when that didn't happen, well. does she really care, then?

it's like how tyrian warned emerald—"careful, little girl. cinder isn't here to protect you anymore." and mercury steps up and tells tyrian to back off, defends emerald—like cinder has, before?—at the time when they all thought cinder was dead.

but then... she wasn't dead after all. she could have been there to protect emerald (them?), but wasn't. did that change things, in mercury's mind?

yet, in a volume where mercury no longer takes orders from cinder, he adds orange. in the sea of greys and blacks and the blue that doesn't quite stand out the same, there it is, bright as a day, cinder's color. not salem's to indicate his new loyalties; not emerald's to show how close they've become.

it's cinder's.

"she doesn't care about either of us" but did you want her to, mercury?

[gaymakima]

ooohhh what i would do to know what monty's plans for raven were pre-maiden plotline

[nightmare-foundation]

Back on my RWBY bullshit again (ranting in my head about the Academies legal processes, how Ozpin isn't responsible for every bad thing that happens in the kingdoms, and how the belief of the previous point colors the fandoms views on certain things in the show)

[kivaember]

woe, ftm walter be upon ye (yes this is actually canon to apv btw)

Somedays, Carla had to laugh at how far she'd fallen.

Well-respected Institute scientist, lauded for her efforts in the C-weapon project and incorporating Coral into AI neural networks... reduced to a penniless scrapper in the underbelly of one of Ganymede's colonies, barely making ends meet because of the UEG's broken form of capitalism.

It was intentional to an extent, though. If it had just been her, riding the massive wave of Rubiconian refugees after the Fires had slagged their planet to smouldering ash, she would've thrust her hand up high and declared her credentials at the immigration office. The UEG had hoovered up every single scientist or technician it could get its greedy little paws on in the aftermath, and from what Carla had seen they were living it large right now. A luxurious little corporate cage as they regurgitated all of Rubicon's little technological miracles for the UEG to warp and manipulate.

She hoped they choked on their feed, honestly, but she was self-aware enough to know that would've been her too, if she'd been alone. But she wasn't.

"Hey, Walter! It's time to close up shop!"

Her voice rang across their large, open garage, cluttered with broken down machinery and mechs alike, a literal maze of trip hazards and health violations that would've gotten her shutdown if this was on the surface. But it wasn't. No one gave a shit what anyone did down here in the slums, so long as their little worker bees kept on working, kept on producing... and didn't, gasp, form unions.

Carla was a one-man show, though- okay, technically three, if you counted Walter and Chatty, but she was wisely keeping away from that business. All power to the people and all that, fuck the bourgeois, eat the rich, etc, etc, but Carla had a purpose she was gunning for, and social liberation didn't come under that. So, for now, it was just her and Walter, working in a deathtrap of a scrapper garage, with Chatty sitting quietly in the background pretending to be dumb security system rather than a fully fledged AI (that can and has ran circles around the security AIs on Ganymede - lots of dirty laundry in many people's drawers on this moon).

A groaning, screeching rattle echoed through the garage, signifying the shutter doors being closed. Carla pushed herself up from where she'd been squatting over a dismembered construction mech arm, trying to extract the intact gyroscopes inside. These things sold pretty sell second hand... or third... or fourth... well, you got the idea.

"Oof, all this bending over is ruining my back..." she grumbled, pressing her oil-stained hands against her lower back and applying pressure, feeling how tight and knotted it was. "I feel old as shit."

"You are old as shit."

Carla scoffed and turned to see Walter lurking in the shadows like the anti-social freak that he was. His brown hair was a little flyaway than usual, darkened from where he'd accidentally rubbed oil into it from his hands, and his mechanic jumpsuit was partially unzipped, his pale skin faintly flushed from exertion and damp with sweat.

He was a lot more modest about the unzipping, though. Carla had whacked hers down all the way to the midriff, because this shitty garage got hot no matter how much she tried finangling some kind of air conditioning down here. The air was too full of smog and other pollutants that trapped heat and discouraged the human way of cooling down via sweat evaporation. It was a torturous existence... and made Carla and Walter walk around like they were auditioning for some kind of "Mechanics Gone Wild!" calendar.

"Hey, you shouldn't be backtalking your boss like that!" Carla mock-scolded, planting her hands on her hips. "What if I decided to dock your pay?"

"Well, you'd have to pay me first," Walter said flatly, pinching the front of his jumpsuit and flapping it slightly to cool himself down. "I'm working here for free, remember?"

"Oh yeah. That's true," Carla hummed, cupping her jaw thoughtfully. "Well! Carry on, then! Can't control you if I'm not in charge of your pay, haha!"

Walter rolled his eyes, forever unimpressed with her cavalier attitude and jokes, despite her best attempts. He was too much like his father sometimes, though Carla knew better than to say that. Walter had more daddy issues than an entire soap opera cast combined, and the one time she'd made a comment about how Walter was looking more like his father now that he was a little older and.... brrrrr! The dark side of the moon had been tropical in comparison!

this kid, she thought exasperatedly, he needs to loosen up...

"Got any plans tonight?" she asked as they made their way to the rear of the garage, where they both lived out of. It wasn't anything impressive compared to their immaculate lodgings on the Xylem in another lifetime, but compared to the rest of the gutter rats around here, they were living it up large. Two bedrooms for privacy and their own kitchen and bathroom with functioning plumbing? They were like royalty! Royal rats, the pair of them, hah.

"None," Walter replied. "Why, do you need me for something?"

"Yeah, as a chaperone," Carla teased, nudging him with her elbow. "We should hit up the bars. You're an adult now, you should be living it large before we've gotta focus on the job."

Walter's expression said he'd rather belly crawl over barbed wire.

"I'd rather belly crawl over barbed wire," he said.

"Aw, c'mon! Stop being a Debbie Downer." Carla nudged him with her elbow, and weaved out of the way when he tried to nudge her back. "You're really going to leave me hanging? Leave your old as shit guardian to wander the bars alone... defenceless... helpless against any ne'er-do-wells-"

Walter snorted. "You're anything but helpless. If anything I should be protecting the local population from you, cougar."

"Cougar! Well, you're right. I do like my men young and cute," Carla teased with a wink, just to see his reaction. Which was....!!! Nothing. Guy didn't even flinch.

"Right. So, I'd just cramp your cougar style," Walter said simply. "Being a cute young man and all. They'd all think you're taken... or asking for a threesome. I wouldn't want to ruin your night like that."

"Hm." Carla was reluctantly amused. "You've gotten very sassy, Walter."

"That's your fault."

Yup, and she was proud of it. Walter had been such a humourless little thing as a child - through no fault of his own, admittedly. Growing up in the Xylem had been a lonely, neglectful existence, and being uprooted from that to flee to a colony that viewed him as nothing but an unwanted mouth to feed just compounded whatever fucked up issues that childhood of neglect had lain the foundations for. It made sense that whatever sense of humour Carla tried to impart in him turned all warped and twisted and a little mean.

But! Humour was humour! When things got bad, all you had to do was laugh! Walter wasn't the laughing type, but she'd take this! Better than nothing!

"Well, you're coming out anyway," she said. "No ifs or buts! You've just been rotting away in your room, brooding about pointless crap. Just come out and have a few drinks. Unwind a little."

"No."

"I'll have Chatty recite all the poetry I wrote since we left-"

"Okay, just a few drinks," Walter immediately u-turned.

Hah. Gottem.

-

If growing up with Carla taught Walter one thing, it was learning how to pick his battles.

He wasn't a drinker, and the bars down in the slums were as seedy as you'd expected: the alcohol was moonshine or contrabrand, drugs were commonly traded in the background, and there was always a risk of the Ganymede Guards crashing the party to arrest a few people for encouraging socialist gatherings. Walter just didn't see the point in getting involved in that crap, but Carla always was seduced by dangerous or ill-advised things.

She also had a short attention span. As they stood at the bar, knocking back the probably toxic swill being sold, Carla eventually got pulled away by some people she knew in the scrapping business, her obnoxiously loud laughter audible even over the ambient chatter.

Walter took that as his cue to finish his drink and leave.

Broken glass crunched under his boots as he stepped out into the street, burying his hands into the pockets of his mechanic jumpsuit. The air was smoggy and thick with a wet, unpleasant smell, making him feel like he was in a rancid sauna, and he unzipped his jumpsuit that little bit more, fanning himself.

He couldn't wait to leave this place.

From the moment he had stepped foot on this damned moon, he had despised every inch of it. The Xylem had been cold and loveless, yes, but the air hadn't stank of exhaust, it wasn't constantly hot and humid, with changing seasons and weather, he could see the sky and watch the birds fly, his hands would only have the callouses from holding a pen, rather than being rough and worn like leather from constant handling of scrapping tools and sticky oil. Walter's life would be very different, if his father hadn't ruined everything.

He stopped in front of the door to his and Carla's living quarters in the garage, digging out the key from his pocket and slotting it in. When he stepped inside, he was greeted with Chatty saying: "Welcome back, kid. Is the Chief still out?"

"Yeah." Walter kicked the door shut behind him. "Talking shop with some people."

"Understood."

And that was that. Despite the name Chatty was pretty quiet, which was why he and Walter got along well. He headed up the narrow staircase to his room, which was sandwiched between Carla's room and the bathroom, and just wide enough to slot a single-man bed in there with enough room for him to actually get in and out of it.

Walter felt grimy as hell, so he shed his boots and jumpsuit entirely, tossing the soiled clothing onto the floor before walking, completely naked, to the bathroom, yanking the cord to turn the light on. As he shut the door behind him, he looked at the cracked mirror Carla had broken when bolting onto the wall. She'd laughed that her luck was already so bad that this should cancel it out.

His reflection was uncomfortably familiar.

As a child, he'd been told often that he looked a lot like his mother. Standard biases, of course: for a considerable chunk of his childhood, he'd stayed as his assigned sex, a quiet little daughter that was easily forgotten about by most people. The moment he'd stepped out of that easily assigned box, became a son hungry for attention instead of the quiet daughter, people immediately switched to well, he's looking a lot like his father nowadays, isn't he?

Truth was, Walter had looked like both of them. He had his mother's bone structure, but his father's eyes, and his hair was a combination of them both: slightly wavy where his mother's was curly and his father's completely straight. He hadn't really put much stock into his appearance back then, anyways. He'd been ten. He just wanted people to call him Walter. What did it matter who he looked more like at the time?

Now, though, he looked in the mirror and saw his father.

What lingering remnants of his mother were easily overlooked by the sharp line of his jaw and the shape of his eyes, his hair cropped short enough that it was hard to see the slight waviness. He lowered his gaze, to his body which was well-toned with muscle from years of hauling heavy machinery and scrap, his shoulders broad and his trunk solid enough that it partially hid the slight curve of his hips. Didn't do anything to hide his breasts, but he already had a plan for those, if this Furlong Dynamics pilot recruitment programme worked out.

It was strange, though. The more he carved away the parts that were like his mother, the more his father shone through, and the more complicated Walter felt about the whole thing. He hated his father, despised him from the very depths of his soul, regretted every day his failed attempt to kill him before everything went completely pear-shaped... and now he was even tainting this, having Walter's stomach clench and his face tighten at his reflection, at the ghost of his father hidden in there.

He wasn't the same as him, though... he was going to put to rights what Dr Kohler had done wrong. He'd make it so he could look himself at the mirror without wanting to flinch... either because he'd succeed in destroying the Coral for good, or because he'd die in the process. Either or.

"Kid. You've been staring at the mirror for five minutes."

"I'm fine," Walter said, anticipating Chatty's follow up question. He turned away and turned on the shower, watching as the metallic smelling water spluttered out of the showerhead sluggishly. "Just thinking."

"Hm."

Chatty left it there, and Walter neatly compartmentalised his complicated feelings and stuffed them under the figurative bed. It was a pointless thing to brood about, didn't contribute at all towards his mission. Being Walter was a selfish self-indulgence anyways, the one thing he allowed himself, despite the looming pressure of the trials to come.

What did it matter who he looked liked? That legacy was going to be buried, one way or another.

[sadlazzle]

tbh i sincerely hope none of u here r elden beast apologists. i don’t wanna hear shit abt it ‘making sense for the lore’ for there to be no torrent elden beast is a boss MADE for torrent. this last attempt i only managed to hit this massive space cunt twice, the rest of the time i spent catching up to him, and every time i did he fucked off to the other side of the arena again. arguably the worst boss in the game which rlly sucks bc it’s the final boss and tbh i expect better frm fromsoft and i dont think im wrong to. elden beast rlly doesn’t hit the mark the same as any other final bosses for me, though i will say it’s only marginally worse than soul of cinder, but for completely different reasons, and not even SoC being from ds3 can save elden beast frm this unfortunate ranking

[the-god-of-nihon]

The hypocrisy of it all

[rena-yume]

Even the tree god tired of jelly & peanut butter brothers it told them to go build things elsewhere

Also them being gods yet they were made by the tree is so dumb like what??

Oh and good job Alyx and crwby, give vomit boy his youth back instead of idk helping the cat?? His life turned to shit thanks to her but let's ignore that, let's hope the ice cream phsycopath murderer and Jaune get closure instead (also Ruby being worried about said murderer instead of the cat was just 👌) I'm being sarcastic it's so dumb

Also 10 years in and we still don't know almost anything about Summer, a 10 seconds scene with her and Raven going somewhere with absolutely 0 context and we're once again left to fill in the many gaps the show left because why bother writing something that important am I right?

Also what do you mean they teleported to when they're needed?? I swear if they pull some random time travel crap, imagine messing up a story so bad you needed time travel to unfuck the mess you mad

Moral of the story: kids, don't do drugs while writing

Now for some positives: the fight was cool especially the Ruby vs cat part the animation was surprisingly pretty good, and good job not making Ruby turn into Summer, it's a low bar but better than nothing

The episode was fun, the writing is still bad and team wby's dialogue about Ruby is still cringe but if you turn your brain off the episode is generally fun

In conclusion I had fun but the writing is still garbage despite the animation being pretty cool at moments

[pa-pa-plasma]

do black cats know they're invisible, or do they just think that people ignore them & run into them on purpose

[poisonsage808]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie

Steb x Reader

warnings: set before and in season 2, language, angst, violence, police brutality

Judgement was a hard thing to shake. Topsiders were wealthy in their demeaning ideas of how the undercity worked. Fortunately, it often would work in your favor. They could say what they wanted about Zaunites, you took care of your own. Rumors and lies didn’t spread half as fast as a warning.

“Enforcers!”

Promises sacred down here too. Deals? Made to be broken, everyone knew that. Anyone could make a deal knowing full well that double crossings were a daily occurrence. Promises were special, though. Friends hooked their pinkies together in sincerity, a vow to uphold; while lovers whispered sacred oaths coated in devotion. A promise is a promise.

You should’ve known a topsider wouldn’t keep one.

Fuck, your lungs burned and itched like they were turning to cinders. You were on fire from the inside out, set ablaze when you couldn’t outrun the giant, moving, grey cloud that chased you. You could barely breathe inside of it, choking on the ashes of your lungs while your body tried to force them out.

You were staggering blindly on your hands and knees just trying to make it out of the death cloud alive. Another cough racked your body, desperate for air. Through your closed eyes you were blinded by white light. You fought against the hands that gripped you.

Swearing with a scratchy throat, you growled out, “Leave us alone!”

You heard your name, felt an obscenely gentle palm at your cheek and instantly knew who it belonged to. Behind that soulless mask was—

“Steb?” You croaked, peaking out of one bloodshot eye to no avail.

It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t do something like this.

Not-Steb ripped off his mask and pressed it to your face. The hissing noise made you wince and pull away but the enforcer held it firm against you. Air— real air; not the poorly filtered kind that you were used to— rushed to your lungs. It was frightening, addictive. Something topsiders took for granted every waking day.

Barely clear headed, thoughts and questions began battling in your mind. Weakly, you wrapped your hand around Not-Steb’s wrist. The grey smoke was lingering in the distance but you’d been dragged just far enough that you could breathe again. Suddenly, you shoved the hand and mask away. You kicked back, hitting a wall that you used to get back on your feet. Blinking away the sting, you shook your head until your vision focused.

Your heart sunk.

“You’re…” Your brows stitched together in confusion and rising anger. “What’re you doing?”

Steb, the Steb that you loved and trusted, straightens at your accusatory tone. He blinks carefully, eyes darting all around as he tries to come up with an answer.

“I thought when you wanted to become a fucking bucket head, it was to help.”

You never minded that he was quiet, never made him talk when he didn’t want to. The two of you could sit in silence for hours. Sometimes the conversation would go on and on with only your voice filling the gaps, sometimes he felt like contributing more and you’d tease that he was being too chatty. He’d laugh, a sound you loved, and find a way to get back at you.

You and Steb found a way to communicate without words.

“How is this helping, Steb?”

However you needed a fucking answer for this.

Hurried footsteps rush towards you just when his lips part. A smaller enforcer, but an enforcer all the same. Orange whisps peak out from under the barrette and you can feel their glare underneath those haunting goggles. They point their gun at your nose, voice distorted from the mask.

“You got one!” They say, rather cheerfully, to Steb. To you, “Do you have information on the fugitive Jinx?”

You spat at their boots.

Steb’s eyes widen slightly, his brows tilting up. He’d never seen this side of you before. He’s never had to.

The enforcer turns their weapon and the butt of their gun comes crashing, aimed for your shoulder. You didn’t flinch, so you didn’t miss Steb throw his arm out to stop his colleague. There’s a moment of confusion, a struggle as he grabs their weapon and wrenches it away.

“What the hell, Riba!?”

“Yeah, what the hell.” You mock.

“That’s enough, Nolen!” Steb’s deep voice holds a bizarre sense of authority. You’re not used to seeing him this way either.

You’re almost jealous of the silent argument he shares with the enforcer, Nolen, until he pushes their gun into their chest. You smirk, feeling mildly satisfied at their walk of shame back into the grey but it falls the minute you find yourself back in Steb’s gaze.

“So that’s how it is, huh? Gas and beat the answers out of us?”

He reached for you quickly, desperate to tell you that wasn’t what was happening; it wasn’t what you thought it was; this was important. Something along those lines you were sure. Enforcers were predictable that way. And you knew if he managed to get ahold of you again, that you would melt into his touch and believe him because you so very badly wanted to.

“Why d’ya wanna be a bucket head anyways?”

Hopping off the last stone, you made it over the stream only to slip backwards. A hand shot out immediately and locked on your arm, yanking you to the rocky shore. You laughed but your friend didn’t. Steb’s vicious side eye was halfhearted but serious all the same.

“Yeah, yeah, you wanna help people. I didn’t forget! Jus’ think it’s stupid s’all. Never met one enforcer that wanted to help.”

Your heart constricts so tightly it brings tears to your eyes. Anger turns to mourning before you can stop it.

“We pretended as long as we could Stubby, but we can’t ignore it anymore.”

A familiar warmth encased your wrist, smaller sliding down until a smaller digit curled around your pinky. Your shoulder slumped upon contact. You knew when you turned around his ears would be flattened and his big, blue, crystal eyes, soft and pleading.

“Please,” he manages. His mouth open and shuts but he can’t summon any other words.

“Riba!”

You can see his ears flattening at the sound of returning footsteps, and more. Locking eyes with him, you make sure he knows what you can’t bring yourself to say. Steb winces as his name is shouted again, unable to tear his eyes from you. He’s scanning you like he’s trying to commit your face to memory, something he’s done in adoration and longing when you’re forced to part. This time it’s fear. His boot shuffles back, body angled to leave but he refuses to move, torn between duty and love.

“Go do what you have to.” You said as sweetly as you could in hopes it would cover the venom of your words.

“I didn’t forget, Stubby,” you tilted your head, wearing a lopsided smile. Intertwining all your fingers, you held his hand firmly and continued tugging him down the path, “You promised to be the first.”

You made the choice for him and took off running.

~

comment jinxer or firelight to help me decide part 2

firelight 3 _ jinxer 0

come talk about arcane (and more!) with us on [discord]!

[nyaskitten]

I think a lot of it has to do with the characters. With previous seasons I’m mostly indifferent to side characters, they don’t mean all that much to me. With DR, I don’t think I’ve genuinely hated a single character (save for Lava-Tides but I quickly got over that.) I will admit the writing can be flawed at times in the ways of pacing, and that sometimes characters can be more boring than others, but DR I feel has genuinely done a Lot for me.

I remember there truly was a time where I had a strong dislike for Kai, but watching his characterization in DR, a spin on his 11-min era self mixed with something new and different has genuinely made me love him like a LOT.

Okay, everyone get in the comments and let me know why you love dragons rising so that maybe I can reverse engineer why I don't-

[snowballseal]

Nightmares and Memories

Sylus X Reader

Summary: Based on some theories I've seen on the Sylus flashbacks - After remembering what happened in the past with Sylus, you end up having a nightmare about the events of that night. You wake up calling his name, and he helps bring you back from the edge. Angst with a fluff ending.

Word Count: 1670

Warning: repeated mention of blood - it's Sylus lore y'all, soooo yah, prepare accordingly. It's purposefully pretty vague in terms of lore cause obviously we don't know what happened, but the ANGST!!!

---

There’s…so much blood….

It seems to come from nowhere, seeping between your fingers endlessly, dripping down your arms to pool on the ground around your knees. It’s sticky and warm, like thick mud, clinging to your skin, staining your palms. The smell of iron and smoke fills your nose, coats your tongue, so heavy you choke on it.

You want to scream. You need to scream. But your voice is locked in your chest. You can’t breathe. Cinders dance around you, like little fireflies, only to sizzle out as they hit the blood. Even when you look around, the smoke is so thick, all you can see are piles of rubble, not even the sky.

Where are you? Where is-

The world spins. You feel yourself tilting, your stomach lurching up to your throat. When you reach out, desperate to steady yourself, to stop the spinning, to stop all of this, your hand wraps around something hot to the touch, metal. Encrusted jewels dig into the skin of your palm.

The hilt of a sword.

You choke out a sob, blurry eyes flashing up to the figure lying in front of you. His chest heaves, dark tendrils spreading across his skin from where the sword pierces his flesh.

Blood. So much blood. You have to stop the bleeding. You can’t be the cause-

“You must press on.”

No no no

You try to let go of the sword, desperate to do something, anything. But a large, clawed hand wraps around yours, keeping you locked there. Locked to this fate. This fate you don’t want. Another choked sob escapes you as you fight to free yourself, to help him, but he holds you steady. Always so steady, even after you-

“If you don’t…there’s no going back.”

You want to scream. You want to beg him not to make you go. Not to make you leave him, not like this. You don’t want to, you can’t. Not him. Not-

“Sylus!”

You lurch up in bed.

Panic chokes you. It numbs your mind, clings to you as a fine layer of sweat on your skin, just like the blood in your dream. You scrub at your face, desperate to get rid of the feeling. Get rid of the red still creeping at the edges of your vision. It’s all you can think about.

You don’t feel the cool, silk sheets pooling around your waist. You don’t notice the crow peering at you worriedly from the corner. You don’t even hear the sound of your broken sobs, body shaking with the impossible burden of getting air to your lungs.

All you can hear is the voice ringing in your head.

You left him. You left him. You killed him.

No, that wasn’t-

You forgot.

You didn’t mean to!

Your fingers dig into the meat of your arms, nails pressing deep into your skin. Everything blurs out of focus, your head spinning too much. You need something to hold on to, but you can’t bring yourself to reach out. As if doing so will put you right back there. There in the smoke, the blood, with that cursed blade in your hands. You can’t. You just-

“-ten? (Y/n)!”

A hand clasps your shoulder, gentle but firm.

You gasp and rip yourself away, eyes darting up to meet a pair of red eyes. The ones you had just been so desperately staring into. It takes a while for your mind to even process that this is real.

“Sylus?”

Sylus leans back slowly, hands held up in a placating gesture. As if you’re a frightened, little doe. Which you more than resemble to him right now. Eyes wide and glassy. Your entire body shaking like a leaf. Brow furrowing, concern flickers deep in his chest.

Finding you in such a state has him feeling…off-kilter. And the way you recoiled, as if his touch had burned you, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He feels useless in the face of your pain and confusion, and there’s nothing Sylus hates more than being complacent, especially with you.

“You had a nightmare,” Sylus explains, keeping his voice low and calm, like soft thunder in the distance. Anything to not scare you further. “Do you remember where you are?”

You take a deep, trembling breath, nodding, “Yah, yah, um, this is- we’re home.”

“That’s right. We’re home.” Carefully, Sylus lowers himself onto the bed. He tries to ignore the way you shuffle back, his fingers curling into fists on top of his knees.

You don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes. Guilt stabs at your chest, but you can’t bring yourself to reach out and comfort him. Not when you can still feel the phantom blood covering your fingers. His blood. It was your fault. All your fault. You were the one who put that sword in his chest.

“Hey, eyes on me, kitten. I don’t want to see you wandering off right now.” The deep timber of Sylus’ voice draws you back. You take another deep breath, not realizing that you had started to hyperventilate again. Sylus hums approvingly,  “That’s my girl. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened, hm?”

Your eyes fixate on one of the buttons of his shirt. Second from the top. It helps, if only a little, so that when you answer, voice strained from how raw your throat is, you don’t get swept away again, “It was- It was that night all over again.”

That’s all it takes for Sylus to understand. 

Breathing out a low sigh, an unspeakable sadness softens Sylus’ features. Of course that’s what would bring you to this. The distance you give him makes sense now, as does the doubt burning behind your gaze. And why your eyes have barely left his chest since you realized it was him.

Like you’re scared of what you’ll see there.

“...Do you need to see with your own eyes that it was just a dream?”

You force your gaze up to his, hesitating. But Sylus is already stripping off his shirt, movements calculated and slow. He tosses the fabric somewhere across the room. You freeze, eyes staying locked with his. Too scared to look down. Too scared to see what your panic soaked mind still expects.

“Look.”

Unbidden, your eyes trace back down, over his jaw, along his neck, all the way past his collarbone to the smooth expanse of his chest. No dark veins. No blood. Just a shallow divot over his heart, a shadow. You watch the way his chest rises and falls, noticing each time his breath wavers, your own heart jumping each time, as if he’ll suddenly stop breathing. But he doesn’t.

Still, the anxiety plagues you. Your fingers twitch against your arms, desperate to feel him, to find his heartbeat and burn it into your memory in place of this horrid dream.

You look back up at him, the question written on your face. Sylus bites back a smile, giving you a nod instead.

He doesn’t reach out just yet as you shuffle out from under the sheets, crawling across the bed to perch next to him. Though it takes everything in him to stay still as your fingers hover over his chest. You can’t help but hesitate, looking up again.

“Go ahead,” he hums, “Feel for yourself.”

His skin is warm. So warm. You let out a trembling sigh, palm pressing flat against his chest. Seeing it was one thing, but feeling it - the steady rise of his breathing, the rhythmic beat of his heart under your fingertips, the proof that he’s alive and safe - is enough to bring the tears flooding back. 

He’s okay.

All the tension, all your strength, leaves you in a small, broken sound. You crumble into Sylus’ arms. He catches you with ease, finally drawing you into his lap, where he had wanted to hold you from the beginning. 

You clutch onto him, unable to stop the flow of apologies that spring to your lips, “I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, Sylus. I didn’t- I didn’t-!”

“I know,” he hums, hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. “What’s done is done, there’s no need to hold on to it. All that matters is that you’re here now.”

“But I-”

“You have my forgiveness. So just…” His pulse stutters under your fingers. “-keep coming back from now on. No matter what.”

His words are the weakness of your heart. You hold onto Sylus tighter, feeling his grip tighten just as desperately around you. Time passes like that for what feels like hours, until you’ve cried all your tears, and exhaustion weighs down your eyelids. He notices, a relieved smile curling his lips.

“Come, let’s get you back to bed,” he murmurs, “you need a few more hours of sleep if you want to fight Wanderers in the morning.”

You jolt a little at the thought of going back to sleep, eyes flickering open again, but Sylus calms you with a soft hum and a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin, “I’ll stay and scare away any nightmares that come. You’ll never have to go through that again.”

His words carry a double meaning. An unbearable fondness washes over you as you look into those ruby eyes, gleaming with a hard determination that is so completely Sylus. Your Sylus. Of course he’ll always protect you. And you’ll protect him from now on.

The two of you settle back into the comfort of the bed. Sylus never lets you go, making sure you’re curled against him, ear pressed to his chest so that you can listen to his steady heartbeat as you drift off.

As you do, you whisper one last thing, wishing you could imprint your words into his heart, “I’ll always come back to you, Sylus. Promise.”

He lets out a soft rumble into your hair, watching as your eyes flutter shut, “And I’ll always be here waiting for you.”

In every life.

---

Sorry not sorry. I'm obsessed with what we've seen of this man's lore and I just know its going to hurt SO much.

[arc-misadventures]

The Mermaid Queen

Ruby: Jaune! How are you so calm about this?!

Jaune: My marriage to the Mermaid Queen will bring an end to this pointless war, it must be done, Ruby.

Ruby: But, they are making you marry a monster! A-And, are forcing you to have a child with her!

Jaune: Are you asking me where is the love in all of this, Ruby? If you desire 'true love,' I suggest you find a commoner, Ruby, and ask them about their love life. I am a noble; marriage between royalty is simply a game of politics.

Ruby: But, for your parents to just give you up... They didn't even fight for you.

Jaune: It was my idea, Ruby! This war has been going on for nearly a century. We have brought total calamity to both our kingdoms over what? If it wasn't for the long lived races like the elfs, and dwarfs we wouldn't know it was fought over something as stupid as nobles pride!

Ruby: But, to give up everything, and everyone you ever known just to end this pointless war...

Jaune: Would you rather I not marry, or continue in this pointless war?

Ruby: ...

Ruby: Marry for peace...

Jaune: Now you understand what must be done.

Ruby: But, can't you just bed her, and have a child with her, and come home, do we need this whole wedding thing?

Jaune: Ruby... turn your eyes, and stare at, Salem the Mermaid Queen.

Ruby: Okay...

Ruby: What am I staring at her for?

Jaune: So you understand this one simple thing,

Ruby: And, that is?

Jaune: Smash.

Ruby: W-What...?

Jaune: I saw this woman, and the first thought in my mind was how much I wanted to bed this woman!

Ruby: But, she's not a human?!

Jaune: I don't care about that! She's fucking hot!

~~~

Cinder: My lady! I bring word that the real reason that the human prince is doing this because he thinks you're: Hot.

Salem: Marvelous~!

Cinder: What...?

[carolmunson]

i'm the best thing at this party | e.m.

up and coming rockstar!eddie munson x girlfriend!reader (is that a picture of slash? sure, but we can pretend it isn't.) aka the first time carol ever wrote a fic based off a taylor song. but in my defense, it was a chase petra cover of 'you're losing me' that inspired it. this is not connected to my rockstar!eddie x actress!reader storyline, this is it's own oneshot in a separate story.

in the early 90s, when your boyfriend's band starts to make it in the big leagues, you start to come to terms with the fact that he might not want or need a small town player anymore. eighteen plus. established relationship. angst. hurt/no comfort-ish. open ending.

"and i'm fading, thinkin': 'do something, babe. say somethin'. lose somethin' babe, risk something. choose somethin' babe. i got nothin' to believe, unless you're choosing me.'"

The Hideout was hot with all the bodies packed in like sardines; stark contrast to the icy chill of winter outside. Glowing on the screen was The Tonight Show, everyone’s eyes glued to it while Corroded Coffin made their first national televised debut. 

No one’s totally sure how their manager Richie was able to finesse this slot – but they went to New York to film earlier in the week and didn’t ask any questions. With Richie, it's better to not ask questions and just let it happen. Eddie came home with an adrenaline rush so intense that he barely slept for three days. No matter how much you tried to keep him in bed and tire him out. 

And sure, it was hard to have him be gone while you drove out to Indy and took a friend to see the new graffiti art exhibit that came in from LA when it was supposed to be with him. It was hard to have him miss a lot of things. His return from the city only started another big talk about it, one you've been having every few months the last two years. Even so, you couldn’t help but be proud of him, proud of all of them. Remembering that just four years ago they were barely getting fifteen people in here to see them play when you first started dating. 

The crowd erupts when the camera comes off of the band on the stage and back to Leno at his desk, the boys in real life all standing on the bar. You look up at Ed and smile, he finally did it, he’s doing it. The contracts are signed, the people saw him, he’s gonna make it. He’s making it. 

You duck out of the way when they start to spray champagne over everyone by the bar, “Not my hair, babe!” 

The two  bartenders pour shots of Jameson and flutes of Prosecco while the show cuts to commercial and it’s not long before you feel the sticky chest of your boyfriend up against your shoulder, “It was good? I did good?” 

“Ed you’re…you’re fuckin’ famous,” you grin, “You’re fuckin’ famous!”

You follow while he leads you through the crowd, settled in near the back where the stage doors lead to the dressing room and out into the parking lot. He looks over his shoulder twice before he sneaks you both behind the amps; heart pounding when he leans you up against the painted cinder block walls, noses mashing when he takes your lips in his. It’s feverish, desperate when he pulls at your hips, one arm wrapped around your mid back to keep you steady up against him.

“Lemme – mmm – lemme take you to the green room,” he breathes between kisses, moving your hand toward the bulge in his jeans, “C’mon I wan–” 

“The interview’s up!” Jeff calls from on top of the bar. 

“Where’s Ed? ED? Come on! The interview’s up!” Gareth calls, the crowd erupting in a cheer of ‘Edd-ie, Edd-ie, Edd-ie!’

“Come on, come on!” you squeal, pulling away to pull him toward the front of the bar again, “You said they were gonna cut it!”  

“It’s stupid, babe,” he assures, “It’s so dumb.” 

“Ed, you’re being interviewed by Leno, this isn’t stupid,” you urge, “This is like – this is it.” 

“It’s literally like two minutes, it’s not special,” he doesn’t move when you pull him along with you, a frown pulling on your lips. 

“Eddie,” your voice raises an octave, tugging on his hand – he lets go. 

“I’m gonna take a leak,” he shrugs, heading toward the green room while you watch him disappear behind the door. Your brows furrow slightly, but it doesn’t stop you from making your way back to the edge of the bar where everyone’s eyes are glued to the medium sized screen in the corner. 

The crowd cheers again while the band is re-introduced, Eddie and Jeff sitting on the chairs with Gareth and Grant standing behind them. You admire the way your boyfriend looks post performance, nearly glittering with sweat but glowing with pride – with accomplishment. You look over your shoulder to see if he’s back from the bathroom yet, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

“So we got a group of some – what looks like – nice, respectable hard core guys,” Jay smiles. 

“I don’t know about respectable,” Eddie scrunches his nose back at the host. 

“I don’t know about nice, either,” Jeff jokes. You marvel at how relaxed and natural they all look on camera, cracking wise and getting laughs from the audience. They talk about the album briefly, and the front cover which has all four boys in caskets with a red kiss print on their cheeks. 

“So, the debut is self titled, Corroded Coffin – but it looks like you all got a coffin kiss here,” he points out, “These from anyone special? You got the girls going crazy.” The audience erupts in cheers and screams, a bra finding its way flung into the sound stage. You giggle when Gareth and Grant  hold it up, making them both blush pink on the screen. 

“Well I got a girl at home, so, I don’t hear any screamin’ if it’s not her cheering for me,” Jeff’s smile is bright when the camera focuses on him and he winks into the lens. Sasha, Jeff’s girlfriend, screeches in the crowd of The Hideout. 

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna do that!” she beams, and your heart thunders while you watch them kiss on the bar. The promise ring that he gave her back in ‘88 shines on her ring finger, awaiting something much more flashy when that first big rockstar payday hits.

“It’s definitely a change of pace,” Grant nods on the screen, “Definitely wasn’t getting a lot of girls in high school.” 

“It’s wild,” Gare laughs. 

“And what about you, Munson,” Jay asks, “Frontman like you’s gotta be beating them off with a stick.” 

The camera focuses on him, his pink lips and smart grin, a flash of teeth before he starts talking. He’s so handsome, you feel your fingers and toes start to tingle when he opens his mouth.You weren’t expecting to hear your name on national television, or be alluded to. You’d never really prepared yourself for something like this. To be declared to thousands, maybe millions, as a rockstar girlfriend.

You swallow the nervous spit pooling in your mouth, heart pattering while you run through all of the scenarios of the outcome of being ‘announced’ in your head.  

“I don’t kiss and tell, Jay,” he smirks.

Oh.

Your hearing clouds and your vision blurs – unsure of what you just heard. If maybe you imagined it, but that proves to be untrue when you feel a few sets of eyes on you. A moment of silent confusion lulls on the crowd at the bar.

You swallow the lump in your throat, fingers and toes cold now while the blood rushes to your heart and head, to your lungs which suddenly forgot how to work. Through teary eyes you look around, drowned out by the cheers of the bar when Jay announces when the album will release. You sniffle, trying to hold it back – but there he is in the back of the crowd now, eyes rounded; pleading, looking straight at you. 

The tears spill over and you try to catch your breath as you make your way through the bodies on your way to the front door. You hear Gareth call after you, hearing him stumble over the barstools while he hops off the counter. Another ragged intake of breath shakes through you while you get closer to the sticker covered door, pushing through the first set and then the other into the dark blue night. Your breath puffs white in front of you, coat abandoned somewhere back inside The Hideout while you walk across the street to your car. 

You fumble with the keys, blubbering while you get the engine started and the radio blares Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together part way through the song. In the rear view you see him hustle out of the bar to search for you, catching the start of your car and getting to the passenger window before you can pull away. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he strains, his fingers hanging on the edge of the half open glass, “I promise it’s not what you think. Richie asked me to answer like that, it wasn’t on purpose.” 

You press slightly on the gas, making the car lurch forward and inch.

“Wait! Please don’t – don’t just go,” he begs, voice breaking with desperation, “We can talk about it.” 

You look at him through wet eyes, the street lights haloing behind his head to feign his innocence. He can talk himself out of anything.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you rasp out quietly, “We’ve done enough talking.” 

“I can…please don’t go,” he says again, “Not with you crying like this, c’mon. Don’t leave.” 

“I’m gonna go home, Ed,” you sniffle, “J-just go h-have fun inside. S’too cold to be out here.” 

“You don’t have your coat,” he states, “Come back in and get it. We can talk in the back, please.” 

“I don’t need my coat,” you garble out, “I’m going h-home.” 

“Well I’ll – I’ll bring it to you tomorrow morning,” he nods needily, “Okay? Is that okay?” 

You let out a shaky breath, fogging again against your windshield, “F-fine.” 

Eddie cracks a weak but winning smile, “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

“I love you,” he adds. It tastes like ash in your mouth. You pull away before you feel compelled to say it back. 

Eddie show’s up in the morning with coffee and your coat, a small carton of donut holes for you both to share. He’s all smiles, seeing you in the kitchenette cleaning out the coffee pot that you now no longer have to fill. 

“Morning, baby,” he grins, “I brought your coat.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the droplets of water that race down the side of the glass pout, “You can just hang it on the hook.” 

“Are you…are you still upset with me?” his voice is airy, surprised while he makes his way behind you. Calloused hands reach around to pull your back in his chest, nose nuzzling against your cheek. Your stomach rolls, bile inching up the base of your throat. 

“Enough, Ed,” you sigh, pulling out of his hold. 

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he huffs, “I told you already. I didn’t want to say that. But you know how Richie is! He just wants what’s best for the band and so do I! Don’t you? I thought you’d understand.” 

“Jeff had no problem talking about Sasha,” you do your best to measure your tone, too early to start yelling. 

“Jeff has the wholesome thing going for him; plus – you know his family isn’t for him being considered like, a rogue or whatever. He’s already in a metal band,” Eddie explains, like this is a totally normal conversation, “Richie even said this morning that he was getting a lot of calls.” “Okay,” you nod, sitting down at the small table in your kitchen where your coffee sits. 

“And like, a lot of people wanna do interviews with us and get hype up for the release,” he half smiles, sitting down across from you, “I told you, it was…it was a good thing. They were saying y’know like, mysterious bad boy front man is a good angle.” 

“Great.” 

“It doesn’t…babe, it doesn’t mean we can’t be together,” he leans forward, hand reaching out to touch yours. His shoulders sulk when you put them both under the table. 

“Ed I –” you let out a breath, eyes tracing a pattern on the waxed canvas tablecloth, “I can’t even look at you right now. And you wanna tell me we can still be together?” 

“What like it’s…some consolation prize?” you choke out, “You made a fool out of me. The looks I got?”   

“I know, I know, but it was for the band. You know how I feel abo—“ 

“How you feel about me?” you hold back a bitter laugh. 

“Ed, the last year or so we have kept having the same conversation over and over again. You are so, so caught up in Corroded and making it and getting there and trust me I am so proud of you. If there is anyone on the planet who is more proud than me maybe it’s Wayne, but – this is just like, this is kind of it. We have nowhere to go from here.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, his brown eyes rounding and brows tilting slightly when he realizes what you’re really saying, “What do you mean no where to go? Are you not listening? I said we can still be together, just like befo–” 

“Before? Before when?” you get up and pace back to the kitchen where he can still see you, “Before when you would cancel dates to go practice? When you missed my awards night for work  because you wanted to fill in guitar for a gig in Ohio? When you didn’t come to my poetry reading with the guys like you said you would and instead got plastered at The Hideout after rehearsal?” 

“Well I apologized for all that, that was all in the past couple years and I – look, I said I was sorry and you accepted that,” his voice raises slightly, he stands up to full height with defense evident in his stance, “You can’t just throw it back in my face.” 

“When you were gone weeks at a time for mini tours, for opening for bands on the East Coast – god, all the work I took off to make sure I was there for you? When you canceled our three year anniversary dinner, without my knowledge, because you got a call for discounted studio time on the same night,” you manage to get out, the tears inching toward the edge of your lash line, “And I sat there at the table in my new dress and everyone looked at me the same way they looked at me last night. Poor girl. Must’ve got stood up. What an idiot.” 

“Yeah well that studio time is why we were on fuckin’ LENO, babe!” he pleads, “Don’t you get that? It’s for us!” 

“It’s for you!” you break, the shrill frustration coming out with your voice, “It’s always just been for you. It’s always about Eddie and the guys. I have done nothing but make sacrifice after sacrifice, excuse after excuse to play the part of perfect, understanding, cool, laidback girlfriend but like fuck Ed, when is it gonna be about me, huh?” He stands there, unsure, cheeks sucking in between his teeth.

“And what’s on the docket for you on Friday? Have any plans?” you ask, your voice softening while you cross your arms over your chest. You lean the small of your back against the counter while you watch him. He clears his throat, hands finding their way into the back pockets of his jeans. 

“Um, we have some meetings in the morning in Indy. And then um, we’re gonna take a late flight out to LA. The label’s excited – they’re really excited,” he breathes out, eyes finding the floor and your sock covered feet.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” you nod, voice still measured, “Since we’ve had the tickets for my niece’s winter school concert on the fridge for over a month. I guess I’ll have to tell her that her favorite bonus teacher couldn’t make it.” 

“Fuck,” Eddie’s eyes shut, pulling his lips in to run his tongue across them while he thinks of what to say next. Your heart thrums in your chest, throat getting tighter and tighter while you hold back a cry – this was just another thing to add to the list.

“I can make it up to her, I promise,” his raspy nicotine voice becoming garbled with desperation, “I can make this all up to you, too. I swear. I wish you had just told me about all of this.” 

“I have, Ed. We are always having the same conversation. I’m tired of having it. I’m so tired of this. Make it up to me? How do you make up for it?” 

“I…” he chokes on his words, ringed fingers running over his face and reaching to pull his hair back off his neck. 

“Go ahead,” you encourage angrily, “What’re you gonna do? Say something. Fucking, do something, Ed!” 

“Baby, I don’t know what to…” he swallows, tears pooling in shiny wells over his eyes, “What do you want me to do? I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” 

You take a breath through your nose and let it out through your mouth, taking the three steps it takes to get to him. Your hands fall from being crossed, reaching up to cup each of his cheeks. Your thumbs run over the apples and drag softly over the stubble left over from the night before. 

His eyes shut while he keens into your touch, his rough hands covering yours. Calloused fingertips coasting delicately over your knuckles. You know what you have to do, even if his touch makes you want to do the opposite. 

“Go be famous,” you shrug, smiling weakly, “Go be the big rockstar I know you are. Like how you wanted. Go play The Garden and live in LA.” 

Your hands slide down his face, tears falling after them, “Go do all that, and just, um – just leave me alone. Please.” 

“But I don’t–” he starts, pulling in a sharp breath while a cry leaks out of him, “I don’t wanna lose you.” 

“Oh, Ed,” you shake your head while the ache spills over into your own leveled sob, “I’m already lost.” 

“No, please,” he begs, trying to catch your hands as they make it back to your sides, “Please, baby, I’ll fix it. I pro-promise.” 

“There’s nothing left to fix,” you whisper in finality, “You should go.” 

“I don’t want to,” Eddie’s soft pink lips quiver while he speaks, “Please. Please. I can fix it, the next interview, anything, it’ll be all you. I swear I can…I can…” 

When your face doesn’t change he knows there’s no way to pull you from your stance, voice trailing off in defeat. You watch as he rips open your storm door and goes to his van, his chest and back shaking with sobs that make the hardware on his jacket cry with him.

A year passes and you are not surprised when you find out that Corroded Coffin has made the cover of Rolling Stone. Wayne bought every copy from the gas station at the end of the road and put them in every mailbox early that morning. You don’t think there’s been a day in the last year that Wayne wasn’t seen beaming ear to ear; his boy finally getting everything he wanted. 

Life had gotten easier now that you weren’t regularly expecting disappointment. You went on few dates here and there, just trying to navigate your life after spending four years sharing it with someone else. Some nights were colder than others, but it was better than the frigidness you felt that night at the bar.

You did your best to avoid the tabloids – Eddie was certainly doing just fine navigating his life as a bachelor; some new model or actress on his arm every other month it seemed. Hardrock’s Resident Playboy. It stung the first time you saw it, and a little less each time after – heart breaker to the core; you would know, you were the blueprint.

In the same cold that matched the night at The Hideout a year prior; you sat on your steps wrapped in a robe – morning cigarette between your fingers. 

“Morning,” Wayne’s voice is gravelly when it sounds over you, still soaked with left over sleep. 

“Mornin’ Wayne,” you smile, taking a sip of the steaming cup of coffee in your other hand. 

“Wanted to uh, to let you know that the guys are playin’ a show in the city tonight. I could uh – I could get you a ticket if y–” 

“That’s sweet of you Wayne,” you smile tightly, “But I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“He might like to see you,” he shrugs. He hadn’t quite gotten over the break up the way you and Eddie had, convinced that this was the real deal – that he was watching young love flourish into something bigger. 

“He’s seeing someone, Wayne,” you take a drag of your cigarette, “Why would he want to see his ex-girlfriend who still lives in Hawkins? He’s got some actress girl now, right?” 

Wayne shrugs again, scratching at the back of his neck, “I never know what that boy’s got goin’ on in California outside of shows and gettin’ into trouble. Maybe he is seeing some girl but, y’know, seein’ an old friend could be good for him.” 

“He’s still got plenty of friends here he can see,” you let the smoke out to drift off in the gentle wind rustling through the line of trailers and mobile homes, “I don’t think I need to be one of them.” 

“Well, they’re gonna have a small after party at The Hideout tomorrow,” he offers, “Even if you just wanna do somethin’ fun. I never see you goin’ out anymore.” 

You laugh, “You work at night, what do you mean you don’t see me goin’ out anymore? I go out plenty.” 

His eyes linger on you, enough to encourage a thoughtful sigh – you might as well humor him. 

“I’ll think about it, okay?” you toss your half finished cigarette onto the browned grass before looking back up at him.

“Okay,” he smiles, eyes sparkling as he makes his way back inside. 

You spend the next day deliberating between making it to the bar or not, putting in the effort to get ready and showing up. Why bother? Just to sit awkwardly in the corner while everyone flocks to the boys and tells them how great they are? They already know they’re great, they’re crawling higher and higher up the ladder. 

You haven’t even talked to Eddie since the morning he left your trailer, and Wayne knows that. He knows how bad you hurt his nephew because he came over to talk to you a week after Eddie went to California and stayed for good. ‘So why should I show my face there? So I can relive the moment he made a fool of me over again?’ You think while the hot water of the shower glides over your shoulders and down your chest. 

‘Maybe it’ll be good to make amends or something, I at least owe it to the guys,’ you figure silently while you slather on some moisturizer at the bathroom sink. And you did – not seeing Eddie meant not seeing the rest of the band. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant were your friends too, and you sort of broke up with them in the same instance. Sasha moved out to California with them soon after – it would be nice to catch up at least. You hadn’t seen her since that night. 

‘But why would I want to bother? So I can see that engagement ring on her finger and hear her talk about her wedding plans?’ you swallow sourly while you use a touch of your lipstick as blush on the apples of your cheeks. ‘Remember all the times you thought you and Ed were gonna get married? Hilarious.’ 

Before you know it, it’s 11:30 and you’re standing outside of the sticky and stickered covered door of The Hideout. Even from where you’re standing the bar is a buzz like a hive, energy inside like a livewire when you get into the entryway, showing your ID to the bouncer at the inside door. 

‘Small after party my ass, Wayne,’ you think to yourself when you get in, shrugging off your coat. There was barely room to move and most of the lights were off or dimmed aside from the small stage in the back. By the looks of it, they must’ve played a small set – an intimate ‘home base’ concert for the real hometown fans. You push through some of the crowd, acrid smoke haze hovering over the room. A single bar stool sits empty at the end of the counter close to the wall and before you can think about it, you beeline straight there before someone else can grab it. Not that anyone would be able to see it through the six couples making out to Slayer blasting through the speakers. 

The bar tender notices you soon after, coming over to get your order while his two cohorts speedily pour shots and mix drinks. You almost don’t want to get anything just to make the night easier, but opt for a beer instead. 

“How much?” you ask over the music. 

“WHAT?” the bartender shouts, holding a hand to his ear. 

“HOW MUCH?” you yell back. 

“ON THE HOUSE. BAND IS COVERING DRINKS,” he shouts back. You take a few dollars out while he pours your beer anyway, sliding it across the bar with a smile. He smiles back, pocketing the ones with a wink before helping another person leaning over the bar. 

The TV takes your attention, a tape of their recent interviews and music videos playing on a loop with no sound. The beer is almost comforting as it passes over your tongue, it’s been some time since you just sat in a busy bar – and for the most part, no one here even knows you. For the most part. 

A call of your name snaps you back to reality, looking around to see exactly who you thought you would. Sasha. And low and behold a ring sparkles bright on her finger, a breathtakingly big diamond glittering in the neon lights behind the bar. 

“Hey!” you call back with a smile, sick crawling up your throat. You watch as she fights the crowd to get over to you, wrapping you in a tight hug while you stay seated on the stool. 

“How have you been? You look gorgeous,” Sasha’s tan skin glows back orange in green while the lights change, tight dark curls bouncing prettily around her face. 

“I’ve been good!” you nod, your voice hardly sounds like your own, “Y’know just – hanging around Hawkins. How’s LA? How’ that ring?!” 

She holds her hand out so you can really see it, her skin is warm in yours while you take her fingers. It’s more beautiful up close, the marquise diamond flanked by two smaller triangles in perfect harmony. 

“He did so good, Sash,” you giggle. 

“I slapped his arm so hard when I saw it,” she laughs, “I said, ‘Jeff we could’ve bought a freakin’ house!’ but you know how he is.” 

“I do, I do,” you nod, “Did you set a date?” 

“Probably not for another year or so if we do a big wedding,” she shrugs, “Maybe a little longer? We think it’s smart to actually buy a house first – with this kind of money coming in. And y’know, the industry is, uh, well, it can be wishy washy. What’s in today could be out tomorrow. We wanna be smart.” 

“Well thank god he’s marrying someone like you then,” you tease. 

“That’s true,” she beams, “Do the guys know you’re here? I can go grab J–”

“No, no, they don’t,” you interrupt, taking her arm gently while she turns to leave, “You don’t have to tell them I’m here. I’ll go find them, I promise.” 

Sasha gives you a half hearted smile, “Okay. Well – We’re sitting over by the stage if you wanna come say hi to the guys. Gareth would lose his mind, and Grant brought his new girl with him, she’s so cool. They met in LA and she’s like, got the sickest punky-goth type of thing about her.” 

“I love that he’s in love,” you gush. 

“Me too,” she nods, “The girls are obsessed with him out there.” 

There’s a silence, but it’s knowing – still one person yet to have been mentioned but you both seem to understand it’s not worth bringing it up. Sasha reminds you that they’re by the stage, giving her a wave while she disappears in the throngs of people in the crowd. 

Half way through your second beer and a couple of random conversations with people later, you see him in glimpses while people pass by. You can tell by the smirk on his face that he’s flirting, and when more people move and re-disperse, settling, you see glimpses of her, too. Some cute young looking thing, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was her twenty-first birthday. All doe eyed and giggly while he leans over her against the wall near the booths. I guess whoever he’s seeing in California isn’t too important.

He looks good, healthy, you can tell his clothes are tailored now – sort of comical that a tailor would fit and adjust ripped jeans and an old leather jacket. Not that he has to know you think it’s funny. 

Eddie leans forward and lets his finger tap her on the nose, a tell-tale sign of his that they’ll kiss later. He’s used that move on you more times than you can count. He did it the night you met, tipsy at a party at Gareth’s – tapped you on the nose, making you scrunch it. 

‘Aw, if I knew you’d make a face like that I would’ve booped you way earlier.’ 

‘What do you mean? What face?’ You scrunch again. 

‘That face,’ he bites his lower lip, blush on his cheeks, ‘It’s a cute face.’

You expected it to hurt more, to watch him active in his element; but it doesn’t. You know the motions, you know his tells, he next move. You can see it in the way he leans into her and then leans away – almost kissing her, but leaving her wanting more. You smirk into your next sip, counting down the moments until he puts their conversation on pause to do their rounds and finding her again later. Gotta keep her yearning, you guess. He certainly was always good at things like that. 

You don’t see their reunion, you assume it was somewhere near the stage where the band and Sasha were. At the end of the night, the boys play a goodnight mini-set, just three songs. You’d never seen Ed so in his zone in your life, fully basking in the glow of upcoming stardom. Every chord and every lyric punching out of him like the sweat pouring from his hairline and chest. This was what you wanted, what you told him to do. 

Go be famous. And here he was. Famous. Just like you said he would be. 

Water takes the place of your beer while they play; and you know better than to get up and join the crowd. Much happier sitting at the end of the now more empty bar just listening instead of getting potentially punched or tussled with amongst the bodies. 

People take their time leaving when the set is over, shrugging on their coats to brave the cold weather. 

‘Thanks for comin’ out to celebrate with us – now get the fuck out so our buddies at the bar can go home before four!’ 

You savor the conversations and music settling down to a much quieter murmur while you sketch on a napkin. A few people you shared niceties with tap your shoulder to say goodbye, new friends you’ll never see again. On the other end of the bar you hear Grant and his girl order a round of shots. Your head almost pops up at the sound of his voice, but that might bring attention to you that you don’t think you really want. Now that the night is over, you’re glad you came. If anything, just to see that they were making it just fine – and they would have with or without you. 

With less people in the bar you can hear Sasha’s laugh in the back where the stage is, and you laugh into your napkin turned sketchpad. Her laugh was always infectious, enough to make the crowd follow suit. You grab a fresh napkin from the pile next to you and start to doodle again while you figure out how to best leave without anyone catching wise that you’re here. Out of the last twenty people left at the bar, a little more than half knew who you were.

The tap of the pen on the bar top while you think blends in with the tinkling of hardware that gets a little louder the closer it gets to you. A squish of leather and drag of a barstool later makes you privy that someone’s next to you. Spiced cologne and sweat sheened skin. 

“You come here often?” 

Slowly, you turn your head – level with brown eyes you haven’t looked in for a year, just in the glossy pages of magazines you’d leave behind at the grocery store or Melvald’s. 

“I used to,” you offer a quiet tired smile, leaning your chin on your hand on the bar, “It’s been a while.” 

Eddie smiles back, soft, cautious, “Yeah, same for me.” 

You both don’t speak for a moment, adjusting yourselves on the barstools while a few more people head out to leave. The jingle of the door fades out, crunches of the parting patrons’ sneakers and boots in the snow sound outside.

He clears his throat, bringing your attention back to him – the curls of his hair, the slight stubble on his jaw and cheeks. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth for a moment before he turns his chest toward you. 

“Can I uh, can I get you a drink?” 

[amiiizuki]

agree, though I also think the bigger problem was that Miles and Kerry (and maybe the other 2 writers that came aboard during V8, idk that much about them) refused to accept any criticism from fans and kept doing whatever they wanted, even if it was dumb (*cough* V8 *cough*), while also trying to pander to the more vocal part of rwby fans (*cough* bees *cough*). at least that's the way it looks like to me (though I am someone who only started watching this show because I kept seeing massive threads on 4chan during V9 airing talking about how shit everything is, and I just had to go see for myself what the hell this show even was)

during the first few volumes you could still kinda excuse M&K's meh writing with "well, they're beginners, they've never actually written anything before, they'll improve over time"

except they never did in more than a decade

Monty isn't infallible, he's human like the rest of us. He's made mistakes for rwby

And having Miles and Kerry as the head writers was one of them.

[irisintheafterglow]

blood moonlit, must be counterfeit

summary: a guy at a party has a really good dynamight costume, and you two get to talking about your favorite heroes. (pro!bakugo x you)

wc: 1.68k

cw/tags: swearing ofc cuz it's bakugo, mentions of drinking and alcohol, halloween party, first meeting, emotionally constipated katsuki and reader is kinda oblivious lol

note: NEW HALLOWEEN HEADER BABY also this idea had me by the throat so i needed to write it down before it consumed my entire psyche. i'm back to writing for bakugo again because iykyk and halloween fics are giving me a lot of motivation right now. hope you enjoy!

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3

“I have to admit–your costume is pretty damn good.”

“Yeah? Just ‘pretty good?’”

“Mhmm. Almost looks like the real thing,” you remark, taking another sip of the dangerously sweet jungle juice in your cup. It's an unreadable mix of bad ideas and bold flirtation, perfect for a Halloween party of barely 21 adults. The blonde guy beside you on the worn leather couch tilts his head slightly like he's re-affirming what you just said in his mind. “I think the real Dynamight would be impressed.”

“Would he, now,” he huffs under his breath, mouth curling into an unreadable smirk. He exhales a quick breath of what you think is amusement through his nose, eyes flicking over your body for the umpteenth time since he sat down with you. It makes your face heat up and you casually avert your gaze downward, catching more details of his costume that you didn’t notice before. 

The gauntlets were obviously the star of the arrangement, covered in numerous scratches, burns, and dents that attested to their “battle” usage. The boots were impressive, too, and you wondered how long it took to place every individual orange eyelet over the front of each calf. The cinder block rectangles sitting on his broad shoulders truly looked like real stone, solid like the toned muscle holding them up. It was the domino mask that threw you off the most, though. The guy must have been wearing bright red contacts, or something, because to look so similar to the actual Pro should have been considered a crime. 

“Who’d you come to the party with?”

“Just some friends,” he replies, shrugging an infuriatingly sexy shoulder. His entire look was putting the real Dynamight to shame, in your opinion. He nods upward in the direction of a guy in an equally accurate Deku costume standing with a very convincing Shoto lookalike. “They dared me to wear this and I lost the bet.”

“Must have been some bet, if you’re moping over here like a toddler.” The shrewdness of your words escapes you until they’re already past your lips; thankfully, he just smirks again and leans his head back, resting an arm on the back of the sofa.

“I’ll ignore that you said that, 'cause you're clearly intoxicated” he mutters, shooting you a brutal side-eye. Thanks to the alcohol, though, you’re far from deterred. 

“How gracious,” you chuckle and his smirk gets a little more arrogant. “What was the bet?”

“Some dumb drinking contest. That asswipe in the green can put down more shots than he looks.” He scowls and you fight down the urge to giggle at his bitter expression. He was the only guy you’ve ever seen that could make a grumpy face look hot. The only guy besides Bakugo himself, of course. “I wouldn’t have worn this shit to a party to save my life.”

“What, Dynamight isn’t your favorite Pro?”

“I’m more of an All Might guy,” he replies nonchalantly. He appreciates the classic heroes. Good sign. “If I had to choose a different one, I’d probably say Jeanist.”

“Jeanist is pretty cool. My best friend had a cardboard cutout of Eraserhead in her closet growing up.” He barks out a laugh and it startles you, but a mysterious feeling in your stomach wants to make him do it again. “What do you think of the current gen of heroes?” He hums thoughtfully, running his tongue over his top lip and you swallow back your drool.

“Red Riot’s a good guy. Deku pisses me the fuck off, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Same thing with Pinky and that Half-and-Half asshat. Chargebolt…” His expression turns into a frown so deep you’re worried that Chargebolt killed his family or something heinous like that. 

“What about him?”

“He’s just dumb. If given the choice between his life and a grain of sand, I’d take the sand,” he deadpans and you choke unexpectedly, wincing as your drink travels up the wrong tube and into your nose. His eyes widened in concern, reaching out to pat your back but deciding against it at the last moment. His glove-covered hands hover around you like you’re radioactive matter, carefully watching as you regain your composure. “You good, nerd?” Uses the same vocabulary as the real guy, too. Kind of weird, but I guess we all have our idols. 

“Yeah, I’m good. I just didn’t expect you to badmouth him like you two were friends from high school or something,” you joke lightheartedly and the guy blinks at you twice before computing what you said. 

“It’s whatever. They’re super fuckin’ easy to read, in any case,” he states with an air of finality and you down the rest of your drink, the dim lighting starting to blur everything around you into a single greenish-orange blob. “What about you? What are your thoughts on the new gen?”

“I can’t make such bold judgments as you, but I do think Dynamight is pretty cool,” you admit, suddenly feeling a little bashful when having the same question turned on you. The truth was, you followed the lives of the heroes a bit too closely than the average person should. It fascinated you so much that you were majoring in Quirk-specific journalism, studying the social and economic consequences of being a Pro. “I think his public persona is an interesting case when compared to other heroes.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’d like to imagine that he’s not always the loud, arrogant, obnoxious piece of shit that the press shows,” you start and narrow your eyes in confusion when he flinches at your description. You continue anyway but choose your words a little more carefully. Probably isn’t good to upset the guy who might have fashioned functioning gauntlets, if the costume truly is accurate. “There’s a side to him that I think the public doesn’t know about and doesn’t care to know about, since it’s easier to understand him as a loudmouth with no sense of manners. I just wonder who that guy is under all the yelling and testosterone.” His silence is deafening and you worry that you somehow offended him, but his tone is so gentle that your assumption becomes an impossibility.

“Seems like you’ve given this guy a great deal of thought,” he says lowly, voice barely audible over the sound of the blaring house music. 

“Well, he is my favorite,” you add quietly, not expecting him to catch what you said. He does, though, and that mischievous smirk returns to his face. Somehow, you two had inched closer together over the course of your conversation, and you were now close enough to smell his cologne. It was something deep and smoky, with a surprise note of sweetness, like caramel. “I’ve been following his hero career since I was in high school.”

“I didn’t take you for a superfan, but I do appreciate your support,” he chuckles and your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You seriously haven’t figured it out?”

“Figured what out?”

“That I’m Dynamight, stupid. This is my actual costume and those are my actual friends. Hell, I'm paying for this whole shitty party,” he says incredulously, genuinely shocked that you didn’t come to that conclusion already. Your skepticism, however, rears its head and you burst out into rude laughter. 

Dynamight? Yeah, right. More like Dyna-maybe. 

“Excuse me?” He stares at you like you’d grown three heads and your heart drops into your stomach. You must have said your thoughts out loud. Fuck! “You’ve got some nerve, testing the patience of a Pro.” His words, under any other circumstances, would have cut down your pride like a knife. However, his eyes were conveying a different story, one of lust and want and holyshityouwantedhim. “Got anything to say, sweetheart? Or are you gonna just keep gaping like a fuckin’ goldfish?” You abruptly snap your jaw back into place, leaning your head into your hand and smiling in triumph when his gaze again uncontrollably rakes over your body.  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“See what, gorgeous?”

“That a Pro kisses better than a normal person,” you murmur and his pupils blow to the size of pool balls. He wastes no time, gently but firmly grabbing your chin with two fingers and pulling your mouth onto his. His lips are ridiculously soft and you muster up the courage to bite him softly, heartbeat racing when he groans into your mouth. One arm drapes itself over the back of the couch, the other pulling you as close to him as humanly possible without practically sitting on him. Your hand combs through his hair and the other keeps him on you by the back of his neck.

Right when you run out of breath, he pulls away and swears colorfully at the phone buzzing in his pocket, answering it with one hand while his forearm is still pressed against your lower back. You absentmindedly trace his jawline with a finger while he curses out the person on the other line, eventually chucking the device over his shoulder like it was the last thing he was thinking about. “You need to go somewhere, sweetheart?” He lightly pinches your side at your mockery and you jump, flicking his forehead in defiance. 

“Nah, that was a job for Dynamight. Right now, I guess I’m still fuckin' Dyna-maybe,” he rasps and leans back in to kiss you again but you push his face away, giving him as sober of a look as possible. “What?”

“If you need to go kick ass, then go kick ass. I’m just some random makeout at a party,” you remind him, painfully aware of the sting if he was to leave you alone. His expression contorts into indignancy again but you still try to convince him to alleviate whatever situation he was called in for. “Your job is more important than a hookup.”

“I don’t do hookups, dumbass. I’m interested in you,” he states plainly and your face is set on fire. The Pro, who you just insulted to his face, was interested in you? “So, let’s get out of here, yeah? I can make you dinner that isn’t shitty pizza.” His mouth breaks into a devilish grin and you’re already grabbing onto his hand like your life depended on it. 

“If someone messes with us?”

“It’s a good thing I’m already in costume.” 

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[gay-dorito-dust]

scar with a gn! Reader that’s crazier then him :3 (headcanons please)

You probably caught a glimpse of him one day could feel this chaotic and intense energy about him, which would’ve been enough to have anyone making the smart decision to leave while they could.

for you however, it was more or less the opposite and it wasn’t long before you’d actively tried seeking him out, causing chaos and discord however you could just in the hopes of getting an audience with the man known as Scar.

You knew of the stories that have been told about him but you didn’t care and instead found something to bond with him over; wanting to watch everything go up in smoke as the fires blazed on well into the night.

Scar saw you both as kindred spirits, people who saw things as they really were whilst everyone else was more or less content with living in ignorant bliss.

If anyone were to call your love deranged or unstable, Scar would gladly destroy them in whatever ways he felt suited them best, as he went on a triad about how yours and his love was a genuine, one of a kind love that couldn’t be replicated because people didn’t have the same passion for destruction and desolation like you two did.

So in his eyes, anyone else’s definition of love was false in comparison to yours as yours stemmed from an obsession that bloomed from a simple glance.

Scar would preach whilst holding you close as a village burns to cinders that you were soulmates, two halves of the same soul that were forced to live separate lives because you were deemed too powerful of a force when together. so they had to rip you both apart while they could to preserve their definition of ‘peace.’

Your dates were…unique to say the least, such as participating in his experimentations and misleading good and well meaning people for fun and laughing when they come back a monstrosity of their own creation, as you’d let them believe.

You: would you burn everything for me? Would you even kill thousands for me my dearest Scar?

Scar: I’d do so and much, much more, charred corpses that would try to take you away from me, try to persuade you into leaving me or even exist within the same space as you will be used as an cautionary art piece; an example for everyone else that they’d too would suffer a similar fate made purely for our entertainment.

*he grabs at your face and leans in real close* they are merely mortals fooling themselves into thinking they’re smart enough to speak upon issues regarding those of a higher power and purpose. Do you hold me in the same regard, my desire?

You, leaning your forehead against his, looking deep into his eyes that were unusually soft in this moment: if I had it my way there’d be no one left alive to look at what’s mine. I’d rip out my own heart if I could to prove that it only beats for you and you could do whether you’d like with it for as long as you want. Cage it? Destroy it? Preserve it for all time always? My heart is yours to toy with.

You truly were a match made in a demented, morbid version of heaven.

Scar would probably test how much you love him by making you do the most morally questionable shit known to man, if you succeed, you’ve proven your love was genuine but if you failed, then he guesses you didn’t love him as much as you declared you did.

However once you’ve become scar’s, you were forfeiting your freedom in order to shape yourself into being the prefect lover for him, however that was the plan to being with wasn’t it?